


In which the boys have a talk

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: blundering onward [14]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: But I won't, Multi, Post-Canon, maybe I should make the Incident With The Ducks into a separate series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 11:04:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11919582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: They need it.





	In which the boys have a talk

Tarvek sat at his dressing table, dragging his hairbrush through his hair in slow, careful strokes. The spice and resin scent of his hair oil filled the bedroom. He formulated the oil itself to keep his hair soft and obedient, but the fragrance he added mainly because he liked it. It kept him coming back to his concoction, brushing it through his hair twice daily—most days—in a pleasant, nearly meditative grooming ritual. 

A knock at the door startled him. He rarely took visitors in his bedroom, and Violetta never knocked. He took the precaution of closing his bottle of hair oil before he bade the visitor enter. 

The door swung open before a sheepish-looking Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. He wore that face of his, the one where he pressed his lips together in a tight, white line, dimpling his chin while his eyebrows puckered inward. Cute, but suspect. 

Sighing, Tarvek gestured with his hairbrush. “Sit.”

Gil sidled inside and closed the door. He glanced around the room and, seeing the only chair occupied, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed. Watching him in the mirror, Tarvek resumed brushing his hair, and he waited. 

“You… didn’t have to…” Gil blushed and clenched his fists between his knees. He dug his toes into the floor. “I won’t make you come flying again,” he blurted. 

Tarvek set his hairbrush aside. He swiveled his chair to face the bed, and he steepled his fingers. “Gilgamesh Wulfenbach,” he said, keeping his voice cool and even. “Are you implying that I would agree—no,  _volunteer_  to do something that is contrary to my own personal interests?”

Gil tapped his toes on the floor. He fought hard for his composure, but feet never lie. “You… you want to fly with me?” Disbelief syncopated on the floorboards. 

“I don’t enjoy flying, not like you do.” Hell, no one enjoyed flying like Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. Remembering Gil’s bright, Sparky joy at his ridiculous stunts, Tarvek smiled. “We didn’t die, though, so that’s something.” He didn’t want to add that he trusted Gil with his life on the ground, so it made sense to try and apply that same principle in the air. 

“The ducks tried to kill us.”

Tarvek waved one hand dismissively. “It was a soft crash. Really the only casualty was my coat.”

Gil lifted his head to slant a suspicious look at him. “You’re not angry about that?”

“Gilgyamesh,” Tarvek scoffed, letting his accent slip on purpose just to watch Gil squirm. “Do you really think I would wear one of my favorite coats to go flying?”

“…No?”

Poor distracted thing. Tarvek looked with satisfaction on the flush creeping across Gil’s cheeks. He thought how his younger self would have bartered away half his life for a moment like this one, to have Gil in his bedroom, sitting on his bed. To watch Gil slowly growing embarrassed for the way his pulse quickened at the sound of that Balan’s Gap accent that Tarvek had worked so hard to shed. To decide whether to watch with sadistic enjoyment, or to extend a hand in mercy. 

Tarvek stood up, and Gil’s widened eyes followed him as he walked around to sit on the other side of the bed. “Look,” he said, not looking at Gil at all, “you’re right that I don’t like flying, but it wasn’t all bad. Not even mostly bad. It turns out it’s a lot more enjoyable when the pilot knows what he’s doing.” He slanted a small smile at Gil. “You don’t just know what you’re doing. You know every centimeter of that infernal machine and yes, that can be a bit terrifying, but…” He thought of Gil’s hands, so swift and sure on the controls. He thought of Gil’s delight, his exhilaration at sharing this part of himself. “You fly like you need it to survive. Like breathing. And I’m not just here for the parts of you that put me at ease. I don’t get to pick and choose. Either I accept all of you, or I re-evaluate my place here.”

Gil stared as though caught between a defensive protest and an embarrassed hunch. “None of that means that you have to come with me.”

“No,” Tarvek agreed, “but you enjoyed sharing the experience. By comparison, my discomfort was negligible. It’s simple mathematics.”

“Your discomfort matters!” In his fervor, Gil leaned closer, close enough to kiss. Tarvek refrained. 

“You say that as though vertigo and nausea have ever stopped me from doing what I want.” Their disagreement on the matter had only warmed him to the idea of going flying again. Perhaps that had been the point all along, but he didn’t want to credit Gil with that level of manipulation. 

Gil brightened. “I can make you a—”

“No.”

“—medicine—”

“No.”

“—for airsickness.”

Tarvek glared at him. “Not if it’s anything like your headache cure.”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

“It was foul! I’d rather suffer.” Tarvek tried to maintain aplomb, but he held Gil’s defiant stare for only a moment before they both started to laugh. He threw an arm around Gil’s shoulders and pulled him close, pressing their heads together as they gasped for breath between giggles.

“I don't—” Gil scrubbed tears away with the heel of his hand. “I don’t want to make you airsick.”

“Yes, you do. Shocking your passengers is part of the fun for you.” Tarvek pulled back the edge of the blanket. “Go on. Tuck in.”

Gil stared at him. “I… what?”

Tarvek gave him a somewhat wolfish grin. “Well, if you don’t trust me to say whether I really don’t want to go flying or not, I obviously can’t trust you to maintain a healthy sleep schedule.”

Gil looked around the unfamiliar bedroom, uncertainty plain on his face, and Tarvek wondered whether he had extended the invitation purely to indulge the child he had been so long ago. So desperate for Gil’s love, and so sure it would never be his. He reached for Gil’s hand, and he gave it a squeeze. When Gil pulled away to stand up, Tarvek suppressed a sigh. Of course. Sweet, drowsy, intimate moments only happened in the master suite. He pretended that he only ducked his head to twist his hair back into a loose plait. 

“I don’t need a minder.”

“Neither do I,” Tarvek shot back, annoyance overriding all other emotions. “You ought to know that by now.” Gil took a step toward the door, and Tarvek felt as though something inside him deflated. That small part of him that remembered adoring this man with absolutely no hope screamed once and shrank into quiet resignation. If not for Agatha, he and Gil would never be any good together at all. 

Gil hesitated. He turned back to find Tarvek just standing, one hand clutching the bedpost, leaning a little as though he might leap forward. He made a false start, swallowed his attempt, then said, “I… do try.” He darted suspicious glances at the walls and the ceiling. “This is really a dead zone?”

“Yes, really. We’re completely alone.” Tarvek’s lips twisted in a near smile. “Unless there are tiny clanks under the furniture.” Or a Smoke Knight in the armoire. He did open the doors to check every time he entered the room, but Violetta had already demonstrated how she could fit beneath the false bottom if she displaced his notes. 

For a moment, Gil looked as though he might search the room. Then, miraculously, he sat down on the bed again. “I try,” he repeated. “I just have a hard time remembering that I’m not responsible for everyone.”

“‘All the time.’”

“What?” Gil frowned as Tarvek sank down beside him. 

“You have a hard time remembering that you’re not responsible for everyone all the time.” Tarvek shook his head at the both of them. “And I have a hard time remembering that we’ve grown so much since our days at university.”

“Oh no, were we ever so young?” Gil groaned, throwing himself backward onto the mattress.

“Improbable.” Tarvek grinned down at him. “It feels more like a fever dream than reality.” He imagined toying with Gil’s buttons, thought of working his fingers down to the warm skin beneath, but he kept his hands to himself. 

Gil scoffed. “Large bits of my life feel like a fever dream,” he grumbled, and Tarvek felt a stab of pity. He had never had the chance to build years of trust before experiencing betrayal, not like Gil had. In his own life, Tarvek had always found betrayal an unwelcome but inevitable part of interpersonal interaction. Like raisins in a pudding. 

“Stop that.”

Tarvek blinked down at Gil. “Stop what?”

“I don’t know, but you look like you’ve just encountered a raisin in your pudding.”

Tarvek wondered if he should feel annoyed that Gil knew his faces so well. “Certain dried fruits exist only to be paired with cognac and I will fight you over that fact.” He poked Gil in the stomach. 

“What, here? Without an audience? Agatha would be so disappointed.” Gil threw one arm out to the side in a careless invitation. Tarvek studied him for a moment, lying there with his eyes mostly closed, his face turned a little away, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. This coarse, candid affection exceeded all of the wildest fantasies of a lovesick young prince. 

“I think the Castle would be more disappointed,” Tarvek pointed out, dropping down beside Gil. He felt Gil’s extended hand curl inward, fingertips brushing against his shoulder. He closed his eyes, and he slowly released the breath he had been holding. 

When Tarvek realized that Gil smelled strongly of machine oil—more than usual—his eyes snapped open. 

“That contraption is halfway rebuilt already, isn’t it?”

“Halfway?” Gil repeated, offended. Then: “It’s improved!”

“Sure. Bird shield.” It didn’t seem important somehow. Tarvek worked his fingers between the buttons of Gil’s shirt and let his hand rest there, feeling the steady rise and fall of his ribs. He smiled. 

This was fine.


End file.
